Cowboy Baby Daddy

“Actually,” I start, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to compliment the chef. I’ve only had confit de canard like that once before in my life.”

“Very good, madam,” the waiter says. “Perhaps your friend can fetch your coats while I take you back.”

He glares at Mike, and I’m having a little trouble keeping a straight face. I get up from the table and lead the waiter away before someone throws a punch.

When we get to the kitchen, the waiter asks me to wait outside. He’s not in there for five seconds before I can hear the chef yelling at him.

The waiter comes out, saying, “The chef will see you now, but I’d make it quick.”

I just kind of stand there for a minute.

On the other side of the door is the most talented chef I’ve ever come across since my father died, and I really don’t know if I can deal with him screaming at me. Things have been tense enough in my life.

Oh well, here I go.

The room is hot, busy. People are talking over each other, somehow keeping everything straight in the process.

It reminds me of my dad’s kitchen.

“Will you fucking look at this? It’s supposed to be braised, not reduced to soggy shit!”

“Dane?”

“What?” he shouts.

He turns around, and once he sees me standing in his kitchen, the murderous expression falls from his face.

“Leila,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t have a good answer for him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I respond.

“I, uh…”

“Chef?” the man standing to the left of him says.

“What the fuck do you want, Cannon? I’m talking to someone here.”

The man goes back to his work without another word.

“So, you’re a chef.”

“Yeah,” he says, “about that—”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me that? Wait, is this the job you’re getting—”

“Hey guys, I’m taking a break,” Dane interrupts.

“Chef, we’re in the middle of dinner service.”

“Shut the fuck up, Cannon,” he says, and walks over to me. “Yeah, we should probably have this conversation outside.”

A minute later, we’re standing out back and he’s lighting up a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I tell him.

“I wasn’t trying to hide the fact that I’m a chef from you, it’s just—”